Banshee and the Ripper
by litvirg
Summary: London, 1888. Young Miss Lydia Martin enrolls in Beacon Hills Academy for Fine Young Ladies right at the start of the Ripper murders.
1. Chapter 1

Just Outside London, England. August 1888:

_Welcome to the Beacon Hills Academy for Fine Young Ladies. Here we hope to help every charming young girl who walks through our doors leave an accomplished, poised and graceful young woman. Our curriculum is very demanding on our fine young ladies, but offers them the best chance to begin their season as elegant and talented young women. _

Lydia scoffed as she looked at the pamphlet placed on her pillow. Fine young women, she thought. Sure. Mindless, empty dolls more like.

The headmistress cleared her throat behind her.

"You will be sharing this room. The young Miss Argent is its other occupant. She is in your year, and an excellent student. I'm sure she would be of help if you find yourself struggling with the course work." She paused as if assessing whether or not Lydia had the look of a model student. "Your case is a very unusual one. It's not often young ladies enroll so close to their season, most girls start here many years before."

Lydia moved her bag onto the bed, finding the mattress to be very close to the ground. She imagined a crotchety old woman in this bed. A young and healthy woman had no use for a frame so low to the ground.

"My father's business called him away to France, so the plans for my education were thrown to the wind for a bit." She saw Headmistress Moore narrow her eyes at her. "My mother and I were very fortunate to find your academy. It was our little Beacon of hope," she joked stiffly, hoping it would tide Mrs. Moore over and allow her to remain unpestered about her family's business.

Mrs. Moore seemed satisfied with that little bit of sucking up. "Vespers are in half an hour. All the girls meet down in the front hall before walking over to the chapel together. We will have to get you fitted for the uniform, but for now here is a spare that will do for the time being." She handed over the folded dress and left Lydia to change.

Lydia looked down at the garment in her hand. It was stiff and mildly yellow. She ran her fingers along the fabric and knew it would be scratchy against her skin unless she stood perfectly still. In a word, it was drab, a mirror of the school itself.

She thought back to her home, thought of her mother teaching her to embroider cushions, laughing loud and freely when there was no one around to criticize the pair of them for not acting lady like. Mother only made them go to Church while her father was still in England, but once he had gone she told everyone that she and Lydia had their own private prayers, when in reality she admitted to being quite disillusioned with the whole thing and began reading novels to Lydia when they were supposed to be praying. Lydia was quite sure that her knowledge of gothic novels would be of no help to her in the night's vespers with the other ladies.

She changed into the clothes Mrs. Moore gave her, finding the petticoats to be even stiffer than the outer skirt. She glanced at the last item on the bed, which was no doubt supposed to be a cloak. It lacked a hood and came up much too high along her legs and made her look like a small child playing dress up.

She sighed looking in the mirror, but folded up her old clothes and tucked them away in an empty drawer. With one last glance to her bed, and the ridiculous pamphlet atop her pillow, Lydia laced up her boots and made her way out of the room, pulling the door shut tight behind her.

Lydia didn't meet her roommate until after Vespers. She was climbing the stairs, rubbing her backside wondering if she was to be this sore after every time she sat in a pew. She'd forgotten how long a chapel service was.

When she got to her room, she noticed that the door was slightly ajar. She was sure she'd pulled it tight when she'd left, and she'd seen no other girls walk up the staircase before her. She felt a trickle of sweat work its way down her brow and she quickly wiped it away with the back of her hand.

Straightening up and puffing out her chest, Lydia took a deep breath and pushed the door open the rest of the way, making a quick grab for the umbrella she left leaning against her bedframe.

"What are you doing in here?" she demanded, not noticing until after she had yelled, that the person opposite her was a young woman, her age. She was thin and pale with dark brown hair. And very clearly not a threat to Lydia, as she was sitting on the other bed flipping through a diary.

"Um, this is my room?"

Lydia lowed the umbrella, and felt a flush rise up her neck. She was sure no one had beaten her back. "I'm sorry," she said sheepishly. "I must look like such a fool, I only thought I was the first one back, I didn't see anyone a head of me on the trail except for Mrs. Moore and she wouldn't be in here—"

The girl stood up and took the umbrella from Lydia's loosening fingers and placed it in the rack next to the dresser.

"I took a short cut back. Through the woods. Saves loads of time and nobody ever notices me," the girl said turning back to Lydia. She held out her hand. "I'm Allison Argent. They didn't tell me you'd arrived, I thought you weren't expected until tomorrow?"

Lydia shook her hand. "I wasn't," she said moving away to sit on her own bed. "But my mother needed to come into town today, and we arranged rather last minute to switch my arrival date." The girl went back to her own bed picking up the diary once more. "I'm Lydia by the way. Lydia Martin."

Allison looked up from the pages and smiled. "Welcome to Beacon Hills, Lydia."


	2. Chapter 2

Beacon Hills Academy for fine Young Ladies served clumpy marmalade. Probably to keep them from eating too much of it, because heaven knows that having an actual appetite is most un-ladylike.

Lydia stared unhappily into her runny porridge and down at her bread smeared with clumpy marmalade, and opted for a glass of water until she decided which was the lesser of two evils.

"I hate to say it," Allison said as she plopped down next to her. "But you actually do get used to it."

Lydia stared doubtfully at the table, but spooned herself a bit of porridge anyway. Braving herself for the worst, she scrunched her nose and ate it.

"Oh, no. I hope I never get used to that. It'd be too dreadful."

Allison laughed and spread a hefty potion of the marmalade onto her bread while the younger girls looked on; some with awe, some in disgust.

"You were up early this morning," Lydia said. "You weren't even in the room when I woke up."

Allison took a bite of her toast and a scoop of her own porridge before answering. "Just wanted to run down to the library before breakfast." She finished off her toast and began spreading butter on another slice.

"Whoa, where's the fire?" Lydia joked, taking another small bite from the porridge-sludge.

Allison looked down at her empty bowl and plate, crumbs scatters all over her place. "I'm just really energized I guess! Probably from starting my day so early!" She finished off her second slice and began to stand. "We have choir first thing in the morning, not sure if Mrs. Moore explained the schedule to you." She brushed the remaining crumbs off her skirt and moved away from the table. "See you there!" she called making her way out of the room.

Lydia stared after her, and then reluctantly back down the table. Allison was the only person she really knew, and the only one who made an effort to talk to her, but the rest of them couldn't be that bad could they? She turned to the girl on her right.

"I wish choir wasn't first thing in the morning, I've a terrible voice even when it's not laced with sleep. How do you all manage to be so cheerful in the morning?"

The girl just stared at her, mouth hanging open a bit. "It's not ladylike to complain."

"It's not ladylike to gawk with your jaw to the floor," Lydia muttered.

The girl obviously heard. "We bear it because we must. Suppose we were asked to entertain company? What skill would you present? Embroidery?"

Lydia looked down the table in disbelief. Many of the other girls were staring wide eyed at her, so she finished her porridge in resentful silence. As she finished, she turned back to the girl and plastered her biggest smile on her face.

"Would you be so kind as to tell me where the choir room is?" Her tone dripped in sugar and she felt her teeth rot with the effort.

A hand fell on her shoulder. "I'm on my way there now," she looked up and saw Mrs. Moore standing next to her. "I will show you."

Lydia followed silently behind Mrs. Moore out of the great hall and down to the choir room. She kept her head down, eyes trained on Mrs. Moore's horrid black boots. They were worn and ripped and not at all consistent for the image of a woman who valued a woman's appearance before her mind. (Of course, if headmistresses like Mrs. Moore had their way, woman wouldn't have minds at all.)

As they entered the choir room, Mrs. Moore turned to her. "It would probably be helpful if you made an acquaintance in your class, as I cannot guide you to your lessons all day." And with that she turned and left her.

Lydia looked about, and spotted Allison reading in a corner, so she made her way over to her. She sat down next to her, and leaned over Allison's shoulder to catch a glimpse of the page she was reading, but Allison snapped the book shut as she looked over at Lydia next to her.

"What's that you're reading?" Lydia asked curiously.

Allison slipped the book back into her bag. "Oh nothing, just some old myths. It was gathering dust in the library, the girls here tend not to read books like that."

Lydia scoffed. "Wouldn't want to learn about something unladylike now would they?"

Allison cocked her head. "Did you come in here with Mrs. Moore?"

Mrs. Moore was standing over by the piano, where a young man sat flipping through the sheet music she had handed him. "Yeah, she said she was coming here anyway, so she showed me the way. Does she teach as well?"

"Only choir, and our dance lessons," Allison explained. "Can't leave us in a room with a man unsupervised, could she?" Allison nodded towards the pianist, smirking.

"Even if there are twenty of us and only one of him?" Lydia raised an eyebrow. Loss of virtue seemed unlikely with those odds. If anything, he was the one in danger; being locked in a room with twenty repressed and sheltered young women? Just risky.

"Didn't you hear? Men are virtue stealing beasts," Allison joked. "Twenty to one is nothing."

The rest of the girls from breakfast filtered into the room, filling up the rest of the empty seats. The girl who had been next to Lydia sent a disapproving look towards her and Allison that was no doubt meant to intimidate her, but instead made the girl appear as if she had smelled something rotten and was trying to swallow her food rather than lose it.

"Lord help us all," Lydia grumbled.

Mrs. Moore took that moment to step in front of the piano, and command all the girls' attention to her for the start of class.

Lydia fumbled her way through choir, earning herself several disapproving looks from her peers for singing off key much too loudly, but in the spirit of ladylike enthusiasm, and commitment to entertain, she plowed on.

At the end of class, Allison looked towards her with a curious look on her face. "You know that was horrible right?"

Lydia laughed. "Yes. Trust me, singing is not my talent. Sounds more like screeching for me. But I'm not usually that bad. I may have been being a tiny bit childish," she said, casting a smug look toward the girl from breakfast. Allison caught her gaze and laughed with her.

"Well," she said. "I'm sure your point is proven, but now you will only be known as Lydia the Screecher." She smiled and looped her arm through Lydia's. "Come on, art is next. Nothing to scream about there, at least."


	3. Chapter 3

Scotland Yard.

"Come on, Father. I can help with this." Stiles Stillinski sat across from Detective Inspector Stillinski, trying to make a grab for the keys.

"Absolutely not, Stiles. Go home."

Stiles stood up and paced around the room. "You said it's like a puzzle, right? That you're this close," he held up two fingers, nearly pressing together. "But you're just missing a piece or two, right? You think you're going to find that piece by looking at it over and over? You need new perspective."

Detective Inspector Stillinski Stood up and walked over to the door. "My answer is no, Stiles. It's been months. No new evidence has shown up. Sometimes cases go unsolved, you have to learn to accept that."

Stiles slumped against the desk. "You can't really believe that, can you?"

His father wiped a hand across his forehead and sighed. "When you've been doing this as long as I have, there's not much belief left in you." He twisted the door knob, and held the door open for Stiles. "Go home, son. This isn't your job."

Stiles grabbed his overcoat and stormed past the other men, out into the cool London air.

He walked to Whitechapel and weaved his way to Osborne Street once again. He'd been there countless times already, looking for something that the others had overlooked.

Nothing. There was nothing there. Garbage bins and dirt and brick and nothing to explain an assault. He crouched low to the ground and inspected closely, knowing there would be nothing there.

He kicked a rock. Three men. There had been three men, she'd said. Three men and not one of them left a trace. He let out a frustrated groan and started to make his way to George Yard when he caught a glimpse of something on the side of a building.

It was a series of claw marks. He put his hand up to them, stretching his fingers along where the marks scratched the brick. They were just about the distance of his fingers. He turned quickly and began running to George Yard.

Out of breath and sweating, Stiles searched the side of the buildings at George Yard for a similar marking. He ran his hands up and down wall after wall, coming across nothing but brick, damp from the rain. He picked up his pace, franticly hoping to find the markings.

His fingers ran into a divot. Several divots. He spread his hand wide and fit his fingers into the slots that the marks make on the brick. It was the same marking as Osborne Street.

He hailed a carriage and ordered it to take him back to Scotland Yard. He threw the fare at the man, and burst into the building, ignoring the groans from the other men around him.

"Go home kid," he heard one mutter in his direction.

He turned to the man closest to him. "I need to speak with my father," he said trying to push past him.

"Look, Mr. Stillinski, I like you. I know you mean well. But this isn't something you can do as a hobby. Your father has a lot on his plate, and you running in and out of here every time you go looking for clues, is taking him away from doing his job."

"I know, trust me this is important, I just need to speak to him, can—"

"Stiles."

He turned around and saw his father standing behind him, looking tired. "I told you to leave it. We've got everything covered here."

Stiles raked his hands over his eyes and looked pleadingly at his father. "I think there is something you might have missed. I missed it until now, but I went back, to both scenes, and it was there and—"

His father pushed him into his office. "How many times have you visited those scenes Stiles?"

Stiles shifted uncomfortably. "A few times is all." His father said nothing. "A few times a week. It's nothing."

"Nothing? Stiles there is nothing you can do. You need to stop this. It's not healthy."

"Father, I found claw marks as wide as a man's hand scratched into the brick of the buildings in both places."

Detective Inspector Stillinski looked at him in disbelief. "So, what does that prove?"

"I don't know, that we are dealing with something very different than just a regular homicidal man!" He bounced on the balls of his feet and began wringing his hands together.

His father just shook his head. "Look, son, I know you mean to help but where exactly would this lead? We're supposed to warn the public and have them be on the look-out for an angry looking man with claws? I appreciate the thought, but I have other work to get to. Try to think of something else for a bit, okay?"

On the steps of Scotland Yard, Stiles felt the rain start to drop against his back.

This thing, these markings, they were important. He knew it. He didn't know how or why, but he could tell they were. He'd never seen claw marks like that from any beast. No animal could spread their paw like that, it was a distinctly human shape.

He kicked off the steps and worked his way to the nearest public house.

Once there, he sat on a creaking stool, and ordered an ale. He pulled his notebook from his pocket and jotted down everything he found earlier and then went over everything he already found out from his Father.

The first murder was in April. Emma Smith. Assaulted by three men, admitted to London Hospital. Died there.

Second murder was earlier that month. Martha Tabram. 39 stab wounds, died on location.

Nothing was consistent between the two murders, except for the inconclusive evidence and approximate age and occupation of both women. Both close to forty, and prostitutes. Nothing else matched up. They had different wounds, were killed in different places at different times. The murders weren't even close together. Nothing matched up at the scenes.

Until now. Now there was just one more thing, and that thing made the case even more unusual, and going by his father's reaction, more unlikely to be solved.

He finished off his ale and put his notebook back in his pocket, making his way back out into the rain.


	4. Chapter 4

Beacon Hills Academy for Fine Young Ladies.

Lydia woke up to the sound of rustling papers. She glanced at the bed across from her and saw Allison sitting in the middle of stacks of old newspapers, her own diary and a couple books from the library.

"What's all that?" she asked, yawning.

Allison perked up, and started piling everything together. "Nothing! Just bored and doing some reading!" she shoved the newspapers under her bed and slipped the books into her bag. "Quick, get ready and we can beat everyone to breakfast. We'll get the least runny porridge," she smiled at Lydia and sat on the edge of her bed lacing up her boots.

"Okay," Lydia grumbled tiredly. "Just give me a few minutes."

Allison sat quiet most of the time Lydia dressed. As Lydia was fumbling with her laces Allison asked, "So the breakfast food, are you used to it yet?"

Lydia frowned at her. "No, I think it'll definitely take me more than a few days to get used to that mush." She stood up, ready to go.

Allison laughed and laced her arm with Lydia's leading them down to the great hall for breakfast.

If Mrs. Moore had worried about Lydia not keeping up in the classes, she was sorely mistaken. In fact, Lydia seemed to be miles ahead of the rest of the girls her year in nearly everything (with the exception of choir, where she had been moved to the back corner, and asked to sing as quietly as possible.)

She and her mother had taken to speaking French in their home, and their Sunday "prayer sessions" had occasionally been filled with words from French novels, so French was easy for her.

There were dancing lessons as well. Many of the girls were seventeen and would be debuting soon, and would be expected to attend every ball, something Lydia had been looking forward to for a long time. Before he moved away, her father often indulged her and took to dancing with her in his study before meal times. She was clumsy at first, and it was a bit different at Beacon Hills because she was being watched like a hawk to make sure she maintained perfect poise, but the dancing itself came fairly easily to her. She was the first girl allowed to try with a stack of books on her head.

Art especially was easy for her. She rendered an easy likeness of just about anything placed in front of her with just a few strokes of her brush. Charcoal drawings were her favorites, but she was restricted to drawing still lifes of fruit bowls most of the time.

The rude girl from breakfast, Margaret, worked hard to find something wrong with every painting Lydia completed.

"Don't you think that's a bit to…well…sensual for a still life?"

Lydia looked at her in astonishment. "And, pray tell, how exactly is a bowl of apples sensual?"

"Just looks a bit like you tried to make them look tempting." Margaret squinted, pretending to inspect her painting. "Ladies shouldn't be sensual."

Lydia actually laughed out loud at that. "And if ladies aren't to be sensual, how do you suppose we all came into life?"

There was a collective gasp from every girl in the room, except for Allison who was hiding her laughter by biting into one of the sample apples.

"Miss Martin!" Lydia cringed, recognizing the voice. She turned around, and curtsied at her headmistress.

"Good afternoon Mrs. Moore."

"I do not know what you were allowed to do and say before you arrived here, but we will not tolerate such un-ladylike talk here at Beacon Hills." She looked down her nose at Lydia, frowning.

"Yes, Mrs. Moore."

Mrs. Moore turned to leave, but she spotted Allison on her way out. "Miss Argent, if you continue to eat the models, I will have to instruct Miss Warner to provide wax fruit the next time."

The girls tried, and failed, to stifle their laughter at this, as Allison hurried to swallow the bit of apple she was chewing to say, "Yes, Mrs. Moore."

Lydia was working her way through the woods, next to Allison on their way back from Vespers.

"How have none of the other girls discovered this short cut?" she wondered aloud.

Allison stomped down hard on a branch with her boots. "Oh, they've found it. They're just too afraid to use it."

Lydia rolled her eyes. "Typical. I swear I'm going to go mad here."

Allison twirled around to face her. "Race back?" she asked, smiling. And then, without waiting for an answer from Lydia, she took off running down the path.

Lydia waited only a few seconds before she gave chase. She was almost caught up to Allison when the lace of her boot came undone and got itself wedged between two rocks, causing her to trip and fall.

She gathered herself up and yanked the lace out from the rocks, tying it back up tighter. She stood and brushed herself off, and was about to start running again when she noticed strange markings on a boulder just ahead of her.

She wandered up to it to get a closer look. It looked like animal claws, but she spread her fingers out to it, matching up each finger to each mark. Shaking her head and dismissing it as nothing, Lydia began running after Allison, much farther behind her than she was before.

When she got back to her room, Allison was already unlacing her boots.

"What took you so long? Didn't think you'd run that slowly."

Lydia sighed. "My boot got unlaced and I tripped. Had to stop to lace it up again."

Allison nodded, grabbing her books from her bag. As she moved to her bed, a slip of paper fell from beneath the pages and landed at Lydia's feet. She bent to pick it up.

"I think you dr—" She stopped herself when she saw what was drawn on the slip of paper.

"What was that?" Allison looked up at her.

"Oh," Lydia crumpled the paper in her hand, and shoved it behind her back. "Nothing. Lost my thought, that's all."

She sat on her bed and pulled out her own diary in the pretense of writing. She unwrinkled the paper between the pages and looked down at the drawing again. It was an exact likeness of the boulder in the woods, strange markings and all.


	5. Chapter 5

The rest of the girls caught up to Lydia in the dancing lessons and were now all practicing with a stack of books on their heads. They stepped gracefully—or so they hoped—across the ballroom, hesitantly twirling in circles, many trying to refrain from shooting an arm up to steady the books in place as they turned.

"Miss Thatchet, if you continue to slump, I will be forced to strap a measuring stick to your back." Mrs. Moore called from the piano, where she had taken up residence, barking orders at the girls while they spun about like ridiculous puppets.

"Yes, Mrs. Moore," Elizabeth, another girl in Lydia's year, called.

Mrs. Moore knocked her cane against the floor in rhythm with the piano, aggressively reminding them to match their steps to the beat.

"Alright girls," she called, and held a hand up to silence the piano. "Set your books aside and come over here."

They all shuffled to stack their books neatly against the wall and scurry over to Mrs. Moore. Lydia dropped hers next to Allison's and stood next to her roommate.

"Think we'll actually get to dance now? I'm a bit sick of twirling in a circle around the edge of the ballroom," Lydia whispered.

"If you could all be silent, we will be able to progress with the lesson," Mrs. Moore. "We've done very little practice with the waltz, so now you will all pair off and practice those steps. Whoever is the woman for the first half will be the man for the second half, so there is no use bickering about that."

Lydia moved to grab Allison's hand. "I will be assigning the pairs," Mrs. Moore said staring pointedly at her. "Miss Argent you will go with Miss Thatchet, Miss Martin you will go with Miss Reilly."

Lydia frowned and made her way begrudgingly to Margaret's side.

"I'm going to be the woman," Margaret said.

Lydia smirked. "Not a chance." She grabbed Margaret's hands and placed them so that she remained the woman, while Margaret frowned and reluctantly took the place of the man.

They danced in silence for a few minutes. Lydia glanced over to make sure Allison was nowhere within earshot.

"Are there many wolves around here, Margaret?" she asked.

"We are not supposed to be talking," Margaret hissed.

"Oh, just answer the question."

"I've no idea. I have never seen a wolf on the grounds. I should think as long as you are not wandering around the woods in the middle of the night, you should be safe from any potential wolf packs."

Lydia twirled, stepping slightly on Margaret's foot. Margaret hissed in pain. "Well I don't exactly go out in the woods at night do I?"

Margaret narrowed her eyes. "I wouldn't have any idea what you do."

Mrs. Moore pounded her cane a bit louder. "Enough talking ladies. A gentleman wants a lady who can dance, he cares nothing for mindless chatter."

Lydia's bag split open just as the girls were abandoning their dancing lesson for luncheon. "Oh, of course. Brand new bag." She slammed it down on the ground and knelt next to it, gathering up the papers that went flying.

Allison stooped down to help her.

"Oh no, you go ahead," Lydia said. "Try and save some good food for me, I'll meet you there."

Allison smiled and nodded, running out of the ballroom.

"Need some help?" Lydia spun around to see the pianist standing hesitantly behind her. She flashed him a smile and brushed a few strands of hair out of her face.

"If you don't mind, that'd be lovely."

He grinned and knelt next to her, piling up her notebooks. "I'm Matthew," he said. "Matthew Daehler."

"Pleasure to meet you Mr. Daehler. Lydia Martin." She shook his hand, and held it for a bit too long than was proper.

Matthew leaned over her to gather some more of her papers. She caught a whiff of something almost floral on him and she leaned a bit closer, closing her eyes to try and get a better sense of it.

"Pity about your bag," he said, startling her. She opened her eyes. "It was brand new?"

"Yes," she nodded. "Parting gift from my mother." She stood up and held her arm out for the pile of notebooks Matthew had cradled against his chest. "I should take these back to my room, find another bag before my next lesson."

Matthew held fast to the notebooks. "It's an awful lot to carry for one person. I can help you carry it back."

Lydia flushed, knowing she should demand that he give her his books back and report him to Mrs. Moore for trying to accompany her to her room, unchaperoned. Instead she found herself biting her lip to keep from smiling and leading him to the staircase, away from the great hall where the others sat eating.

She felt warm as he followed closely behind her, up the stairs. Her fingers shook slightly as she reached for the handle to her bedroom door, but she took a deep breath and steadied herself. She ushered him inside first, and shut the door behind her, just in case Anne, the housekeeper, were to walk by.

"Where should I put these?" Matthew turned to face her, standing in front of her small bedside table.

She walked over and reached behind him to set the papers on the table, nearly touching chest to chest as she did. "The bedside table is fine for now."

Matthew set his pile atop hers and then turned back to face her. He ran a hand along her cheek and she took a step forward, pressing her middle to his. His thumb ran along her lip before he dipped his head down to hers.

She had kissed men before, obviously. A lady wasn't supposed to without courtship and marriage, but she had. So it wasn't surprising when he flicked his tongue across her lips, and it felt the same as it always had when she opened her mouth for him to explore. A warm flush worked up her belly and she wound her fingers through his hair for just a few moments before she pulled away.

"You needed to get another bag before your next lesson, didn't you?" he asked, somewhat breathless.

She nodded. "But…I may need some help finding it."


	6. Chapter 6

"How'd you manage to work your way down here?" Allison hissed to Lydia between songs.

They stood in the front row, over in the right corner. Closest to the piano. "I may have mentioned to Mrs. Moore that the only way I would improve would be to get closer to the music," Lydia hissed back. "After all, if I cannot hear the key in which our pianist is playing, how am I to know what key to sing in?" Lydia puffed her chest out and gave Allison a sly smirk.

"Are those new gloves?" Allison yanked Lydia's hand in front of her face, inspecting them closely.

"Papa just sent them over from France!" Lydia tugged her arm back. "Aren't they lovely?"

Allison hummed her agreement and turned her attention back to Mrs. Moore. Lydia was far more preoccupied with the pianist.

Lydia was painting a landscape scene tiredly, when she heard Margaret speak up from behind her own canvas.

"I don't understand why we must have a male pianist. I know Anne is quite proficient, could she not play for us in choir or our dancing lessons?" Margaret whined, painting an apple a gaudy orange color.

"And when would she have time for that? With all her other duties?" Allison countered.

"I'm only saying I feel uncomfortable, to a young man's ogling eyes twice daily."

"Oh even you can't pretend not to desire to be noticed. And what are we here for if not to learn to capture a man's eye?"

Margaret stared on, slack jawed at Lydia.

Smugly, Lydia continued painting. She painted a scene of Eden, much to the dismay of Miss Warner and Margaret, but that was to be expected. Everything she did was much to the dismay of Margaret.

"Of course, it is no surprise that you should want to catch the eye of the pianist, as you have no talent in any means of entertainment, you will no doubt use any means possible to catch a man's eye in your season," Margaret spat.

Lydia stood up and threw her brush down. "Forgive me, but isn't the whole point of a season to catch a man's eye?"

Ignoring the calls of Miss Warner, Lydia ran out of the room, and up the stairs into her room. She slammed the door and let out an angry sob. Unlacing her boots she threw them at the door.

She hear a rap at her window. Looking at it she saw nothing.

Another rap.

She moved to the window and looked down. There, on the ground, was Matthew. She opened the window.

"You're not actually throwing rocks at my window are you?"

"Aw come on," Matthew said. "Give a guy some credit. I had to loop around through the woods to get over here without anyone noticing."

"And I'm sure you'll remain unnoticed if you continue to stand out there yelling," she called down.

Matthew gave her a mischievous grin and held up a finger for her to wait. He pulled off his coat and jumped on the low branch of the tree next to her window, and continued to climb up until he met her face to face.

He wasn't a graceful climber, his hands and feet kept slipping and he landed on his stomach several times, knocking the wind out of him. By the time he reached her he was scratched and dirty and out of breath.

"Hello, Miss Martin."

"Hello, Mr. Daehler."

"Aren't you going to let me in?" He looked as if he was straining to hold on.

"Looking like that? Not a chance. You'd track mud all over."

Matthew frowned. "Come on, Martin. Remember how I said I went through the woods? It was more traumatizing than you might think. Some guy was there, looking at this rock. Actually sketching it. Don't make me go back there so soon."

Lydia started at that. "Which rock? A big boulder?"

"Yeah," Matthew said slowly. "Right off a sort of trail, looked like it was going to the chapel. Now let me in, please."

Lydia wanted to know what was so special about that bloody rock. Not only was it of some random importance to her roommate, now there was another man out there sketching it? She composed her features and placed her hand on Matthew's shoulder.

"Afraid not, Mr. Daehler. I wouldn't be able to explain the mud and dirt to Allison." She leaned down and gave him a kiss when it looked as if he was about to protest. "Now go." She shut her window, smiling and then pulled her curtain closed.

She began to pace around her room. Why was that boulder so special? What were the markings on them? And why did Allison care?

She decided she needed to go back to it, that night.

Lydia waited until after Vespers to make her way to the boulder again. The trouble was getting Allison to leave her alone on the trail again. She wasn't sure she'd buy the whole lace coming untied during a race again, so she needed something different.

She looked down at her hands and peeled one glove off while Allison was facing the other direction.

"Oh, drat," she feigned annoyance. "I seem to have left a glove in the chapel."

"Alright, let's go back and get it—"

"Oh no need for us both to go! You go on ahead and I'll catch up to you later!"

Allison frowned but nodded, turning back to the path to the school. Lydia made like she was going back to the chapel, but ducked behind a tree until Allison was out of sight.

Once she got to the boulder, she realized she had no idea what she was doing. What was she looking for? Clues? What would a clue be? She circled it several times, head tilted as if she was inspecting it, and then in frustration and embarrassment she sat down on top of it trying to figure out what the hell to look for.

Snap.

There was the cracking of several tree branches from behind her, the direction of the school.

"Allison? Is that you? I found my glove!"

There was no answer.

"Matthew?"

Still no answer.

She stood up, putting the boulder between her and the noise, and waited as a shadowed figure appeared in front of her.


	7. Chapter 7

She picked up a rock from the ground around her feet and held it up, ready to throw, ready to strike, ready to run. She couldn't see who it was, only a shadow.

Perhaps it was Matthew, playing a trick on her for kicking him out earlier. If that was the case, she would definitely throw the rock.

"Who are you?" she called.

He came forward hands in front of his chest. He was tall and lean, not bulky so Lydia felt she could overtake him if she must. She gripped the rock tighter nonetheless. He stepped into the light and she was able to see him fully. He had messy brown hair, and his pale skin was covered in dirt as if he had fallen down in the woods several times.

"I'm not going to do anything, please don't throw that rock at me," he said edging further onto the path.

Lydia lowered her arm, but she held tight onto the rock. "Why are you skulking about in the woods right next to a girl's school then?"

The man sighed and dropped his hands. He rubbed one hand over the back of his neck and bit his lip, deciding whether or not to tell her the truth about what he was doing.

"It's going to sound crazy," he said.

Lydia lifted the rock a bit.

"Hey, hey, I didn't say I wasn't going to tell you did I? I just said it is going to sound crazy to you, if I do. When I do," he hastily corrected as her arm raised a fraction of an inch on "if."

"Just tell me what you're doing here or I'll scream," Lydia threatened.

He stood next to her in front of the boulder. "I'm here for this." He patted the top of it.

Lydia clenched the rock tighter. "The boulder?"

"Yes, the boulder that's what I just said." He sounded exasperated.

"Why? Why are you here for a boulder?"

He looked her up and down, smirking at the rock in her hand, calling her empty threat. She felt the bottom of his leg brush the bottom of her skirts as he made his way around her. He stopped again and the front of the boulder, kneeling down next to it.

"Tell me," he said to her. "Have you ever seen marks like these in the woods?"

"Well I don't exactly spend a lot of time in the woods," she huffed.

He cocked an eyebrow. "Have you ever seen a wolf's paw? How wide it is?" He weld four fingers up, squished together. "About this wide," he said. Then he stretched his fingers as wide as they could go, much wider than her own fingers, matching them up to the marks on the rock face.

"Ever seen a wolf that could do that with its paw?" he challenged.

She felt her breath turn shaky and uneven. She started looking around in the dark, trying to see what lay in the trees, nervous, feeling a trickle of sweat run across her brow. "So what do you think it is then?"

He frowned then. "That's the problem. The only animal I can think of that could possibly leave a mark like this is a bear."

"Bears haven't lived in England for hundreds of years."

"Exactly," he said, meeting her eyes. She felt a chill go down her spine.

Lydia tried to imagine what sort of beast would leave a mark. The man was right, it couldn't have been a wolf, their paws are much too small. Same with a fox. And bears were out, unless one snuck onto a ship from America—which she found to be unlikely.

"Is it a danger to us, whatever it is?" she asked.

He looked at her, dumbfounded. "A clawed creature as big as a man, at least? Yes, I'd say it's dangerous."

Lydia pursed his lips at his contempt. It wasn't as if she was an expert on these things, until recently she had never been near London, and certainly never spent time in the woods. Her days were filled with books and, erm, _other a_ctivities.

"Who exactly are you?" she shot at him.

He held out his hand. "Stiles Stillinski. I'm a journalist."

"And you're…what exactly? Covering the breaking news of scratches on rocks?"

It was his turn to scowl. "You don't think it's strange? There's no animal here that could possibly leave this mark, yet here it is! And it's all over Whitechapel too. So yes, I am _covering the breaking news of scratches on rocks._" He nodded indignantly as he finished, eyeing her, challenging her to mock him now.

But Lydia didn't notice his challenging stare, didn't care that he was practically huffing at her with anger. She was focused on only one thing that he had said. _It's all over Whitechapel too_.

"Where in Whitechapel?" she asked.

"What?"

"You said," she began slowly, "that it's all over Whitechapel too. Where in Whitechapel?"

He looked up at her startled and wring his hands together, before answering her. "Osborne Street." He paused. "And George Yard."

She turned away from him, thinking. What sort of animal lives both in the woods and the city? None of it made sense.

"But why?" she whispered, mostly to herself.

"That's what I'm trying to figure out."

Lydia was startled by his statement, remembering she wasn't alone. And then she remembered where she was, and was suddenly very aware just how long she had been away. Allison was probably about to go to Mrs. Moore, tell her how long Lydia had been, and then she'd be found in the woods with a strange man, and who knows what Mrs. Moore would do.

"What time is it?" she asked Stiles. He reached into his pocket for his watch, but she stopped him. "Never mind, it doesn't matter. I have to go, I've been here too long." She lifted the hem of her skirts, preparing to run, but he placed his hand softly over her arm to delay her.

"Why exactly were you here on your own anyway?"

She quirked her lips. "Same reason as you." And then she took off running towards the school.


	8. Chapter 8

Lydia had a feeling that Allison knew something. It was, after all, her drawing that Lydia had taken. If she knew about the marks, maybe she knew what sort of animal they were from. All she had to do was ask.

But that brought up the issue of how to ask. Because if she did ask, she would have to admit to taking her drawing and lying about it. She didn't want to be the roommate with light fingers, and Allison could report her to Mrs. Moore for stealing parts of her personal diary.

But if she was able to ask Allison, that brought up the question of whether or not to tell her about Stiles. She didn't know if there really was anything to tell. But if three people were all trying to solve the same question, should they not all be solving it together?

Though, she knew practically nothing about this Mr. Stilinski. But, she thought that if he really was a mad man, or a threat, wouldn't he have done something to her when they were alone in the woods?

But he hadn't done anything. He'd just talked. And asked her questions. It was odd. She liked being able to actually help someone; to not have to hide how smart she was. Ladies weren't supposed to be so smart, they weren't supposed to give their opinions freely.

Undecided on what to do about Allison, Lydia drew herself out of bed and dressed for the day. Now that she had her own uniform, she felt a bit more comfortable, though it was still nearly as stiff, even though it had been made new.

She wandered down to breakfast, hopeful that it would be the day the porridge wasn't runny, but knew she was foolish to wish it.

When she did get to breakfast, to her surprise she didn't see Allison. She sat down, next to an open chair, thinking Allison was probably just at the library again and would show up a bit later.

She had finished her bread and was halfway through the horrible porridge (no, she was still not used to it thank you very much. She had excellent taste and that would not be so easily erased) when she noticed that Allison still had not shown up.

She saw Mrs. Moore nearby, so she finished off her food and walked over to her.

"Mrs. Moore?" she asked. The headmistress turned to face her. "May I go to the library before the choir lesson? Sometimes Allison goes there before breakfast and I think she may have lost track of time, since she still has not come for breakfast."

Mrs. Moore turned away and started walking down the hall, Lydia trailing behind. "Allison was called away early this morning, for a family emergency. She will not be back for several days."

Lydia stopped, but as Mrs. Moore did not, she jogged (_"Ladies don't run!"_) to catch up with her. "Is everything okay? Is someone ill?"

"Miss Martin, I admire your concern for your friend, but you must refrain from prying into another family's business. If they want you to know, you must trust that they will contact you directly," and she walked away, leaving Lydia standing alone and confused in the hall.

She fumbled her way through choir, ignoring the looks Matthew would sneak to her over the piano, and instead thought about why Allison didn't tell her she was leaving. At the end of the lesson she moved slowly, as she usually did, but this time it was not to give the other girls time to clear away so that she could be alone with the pianist, it was unintentional; her mind was spinning and she barely registered the familiar tap on her shoulder.

She turned and saw Matthew standing expectantly behind her.

"I feel like I haven't seen you in a while."

She rolled her eyes. "You saw me yesterday."

"Well," he said taking a step towards her. "Not really."

"Yes, really, you really did. Right here. And then in the dance lesson. And then at my window. You saw me quite a lot yesterday, actually."

His smile dropped and morphed into something more confusing. "Oh, you mean when you pushed me away from your window before we even had a chance to…talk?"

Lydia gathered her books and made to leave the room. "I have to go, Matthew. I have an art lesson. I'm sure I shall see you later," she said. When she was a few steps away she grumbled to herself, "I always do."

She spent the rest of the day in a daze, worried about Allison. At the end of the dance lesson she darted to get her bag, and then chased after Mrs. Moore, not noticing an unhappy looking Matthew sitting at the piano.

"Mrs. Moore!" she called as she chased after her. "Mrs. Moore, I was wondering if you would post a letter to Allison if I wrote one." Mrs. Moore opened her mouth to speak, probably to decline, but Lydia rushed on. "I'm just worried about her. She usually tells me if something is bothering her, and I just want her to know she has support here at Beacon Hills too." There, she thought. Mrs. Moore wouldn't tell her no if the name of Beacon Hills was invoked.

"Of course," Mrs. Moore nodded. "Write it today and I will post it first thing tomorrow."

Lydia nodded in reply and ran to her room to write it before dinner.

_Dear Allison_, she wrote.

_I hope everything is alright with your family. Mrs. Moore wouldn't tell me what was wrong, but she said there was some sort of emergency. Let me know if I can do anything. _

_Do you know when you will return to Beacon Hills? It's unbearably dull without you here, and it's only been a day. _

_Write soon, or better still, quickly solve whatever it is you have left for and come back here so that I am not the only one with a brain in this mad house._

_With love,_

_Lydia_


	9. Chapter 9

At the end of the week Allison still had not returned, but she had sent along a letter.

_Dear Lydia,_

_Everything is fine here. No, there's nothing you can do. Unfortunately it is all a bit complicated and I cannot properly explain it in a letter, but I am expecting to be back at Beacon Hills by the end of next week. If not then, then definitely the middle of the week after._

_Try not to have too much fun without me!_

_(And please refrain from killing Margaret. I should hate to see you hanged for murder.)_

_With love,_

_Allison_

Lydia tucked the letter into her letter into her pocket as she left the great hall with the others for the chapel.

She found herself forced to pay attention throughout the service, now that Allison was not there to whisper with in the pew. She found herself agreeing with her mother about the whole church business and found herself longing for her library at home, where at least she always had some companion or another.

At the end of the service, she tucked herself in the back of the line, in order to slip into the woods without anyone noticing. It wasn't that she really wanted to get back to the school any faster, she just could not stand to be around those girls any longer. Insipid, every one of them.

She was shocked to see him again, sitting there on the boulder, long spindly legs blocking the scratches from view.

"You're back!" she exclaimed.

He looked up at her smiling. "I am. Good evening Miss Martin."

She stopped in front of him. "Why are you back?"

He rummaged in his pockets, eventually pulling out a crumpled sheet of paper. "This fell out of your pocket as you ran away last time."

She took the paper from him, unfolding it. It was the picture she stole from Allison, the drawing of the rock. With a questioning look, she asked, "You came all the way back here to give me a crumpled up doodle of a rock?"

If it wasn't so dark, she would have sworn she saw him blush. "Well," he said looking away. "Maybe it was important."

"I could have just drawn another," she teased.

His lips quirked up at her tone. "Well, now you won't have to."

Lydia stuffed the paper in her pocket and strained her ear, listening for the others on the path back to the school. When she couldn't hear a trace of them, she sighed gathering up her skirts.

"Have to run again?"

"Afraid I do. Goodbye again Mr. Stillinski," she threw a wink in his direction. "I'm sure I shall see you again soon."

He watched her run back to the school again.

When Lydia was back in her room, she glanced at the crumpled paper one more time. On the bottom she saw something that had obviously been erased, but could still be made out perfectly.

It was Stiles' name, followed by an address.

The next day, Lydia decided instead of waiting for Allison to get back, she would just do what Allison would do and go to the library. She spent hours poring over books about animals. She read up on wolves first, just to be sure. But none of them even came close to the size she was looking for. She moved onto deer, thinking maybe the antlers were about the right size to leave that sort of mark, but they were too far apart.

She looked at dogs, trying to find one with a paw large enough, thinking maybe one got away from someone in town, or maybe a gypsy set one of theirs lose when they moved on.

But after hours of looking, there was no natural animal that could feasibly leave the marks on the rock. Exhausted and frustrated she went back to her room.

She slammed her door shut, pleased when she heard a startled shriek from Margaret down the hall. She hastily unlaced her boots and threw them in anger away from her, one of them landing under Allison's bed.

In the morning as she dressed and ran over all the lessons she would have to go through until Allison returned and could ask her about the drawing (though she had torn the bit with Stiles' note off—she would come up with a lie for that later) and maybe even about the journalist who was working toward the same question.

She put on and laced up one of her boots, before remembering that the other one was tucked under Allison's bed. She reached under and dragged it out, the toe of it getting caught on a book that was stuffed under there, dragging that out too.

It was flipped open to a page about were-beasts. Half man, half animal. It had a drawing of a huge man, with claws coming from the tips of each finger.

The next page was about shape shifting creatures. The page after that was about demon spirits inhabiting human bodies. Allison clearly had some interesting taste in leisure reading.

Lydia kept flipping back to the page with the clawed half man. She saw a faint circle around his hand, either drawn by Allison or someone before her, but either way it left her feeling like she had finally found something.

She ripped the page out of the book. She ran to her drawer and took out her own pencil.

_I know I must sound mad but…I think I found something_, she wrote, drawing an arrow from her words to the clawed hand, which she circled again.

She folded it up and put it in an envelope, quickly scribbling a name and address on the envelope.

At breakfast, she brought it over to Mrs. Moore.

"Mrs. Moore?" She waited for the headmistress to give turn her attention to her. "Could you post another letter for me?"

"Yes, when I get a moment I will," she held her hand out for the letter. "Another to Miss Argent?"

Lydia put the letter in her hand. "Not this time. This is to a, uh, family friend."

Mrs. Moore glanced at the letter. "A Mr. Stiles Stillinski?"

"Yes," Lydia confirmed. "That's right."


	10. Chapter 10

It was two days later when Lydia received a reply.

_You're right_, it said. _You do sound mad_.

That was all it said.

She growled at the letter in her hands and crumpled it up, and then stomped it for good measure. She was about to sit down at her desk and write an angry reply, when she decided it was no use. She had no idea what she was talking about, and was already out of her depth. What did she know about mysterious beasts or mad, homicidal men?

Nothing. She knew nothing.

So, instead of spending any more time with it, she dropped the crumpled paper into her waste basket, did her hair up in a tidy bun, and made her way down to breakfast.

In choir, she took her place at the front by the piano once more, and shot Matthew a wink when Mrs. Moore wasn't looking. Back to her life from before.

Matthew at least seemed happy about it. His playing picked up speed and became a bit louder until the girls seemed to be screeching over him (no different for Lydia, at least) until Mrs. Moore pounded her cane on the ground next to him and all music stopped.

"Mr. Daehler, have you forgotten your purpose here? You are to accompany these young ladies as they sing, at a normal volume if you please," she snapped, letting him know it was in no way a request.

"Yes, Mrs. Moore, forgive me. I don't know where my head went," he bowed his head apologetically.

"Yes, well" she huffed, facing the girls once more. "Let us just try it again."

Lydia quirked an eyebrow in his direction and then turned to face Mrs. Moore as the playing started up again, much quieter than before, and at the proper pace. Mrs. Moore gave a satisfied nod, and Matthew's head hung a little lower.

"That," Matthew breathed into her neck later that day, "was entirely your fault. If I get kicked out of here, you'll have to answer for it."

"Oh please," Lydia said, shoving his hands somewhere useful. "You would be lucky to lose your job over me."

It was after dinner when Lydia was alone in her room, flipping through the book from under Allison's bed, when she heard something outside her window.

Tap.

Tap. Tap.

Tap.

Lydia pushed herself off the bed and made her way to the window and pulled the curtain aside.

Surprised at what she saw, she hastened to open the window.

"How did you know which room was mine?" she hissed wrapping her arms around herself to protect her from the cold air.

Stiles hung his head breathing heavily. "Just…give me…a moment. This tree is harder…to climb than you…would think." He waved his arm as he talked, and nearly fell off of the branch, precariously wedged between the tree trunk and her window, letting out a squeal accidentally when he flailed, trying to reclaim his grip again.

"Oh, you're going to wake the whole school," she accused, grabbing the neck of his shirt and dragging him into her room. "Just get in and be quiet."

He fumbled in, tripping but quickly righting himself and then stood very still, eyes wide and roaming the room as if he couldn't believe he was actually in there.

"Don't tell me you've never seen a ladies room before," she said.

"No. Of course I have. Never mind. That's not why I'm here."

"Why exactly are you here?" she snapped,

"Whoa there, feisty. Why so hostile?" he held his hands up in mock surrender, raising his eyebrows at her.

She plunked herself down on her bed and glared at him. "Oh nothing really. Just thought you had reached the conclusion that I was mad."

"You sent me a picture of a werewolf."

"Well you didn't have any ideas!"

Stiles sighed and sat on Allison's bed opposite her after she pointedly spread her arms across her own mattress, leaving no room for him to sit there.

"No I didn't," he said. "And I didn't actually say I didn't believe you, either, so you can calm down. It was only a joke."

Lydia glared a tiny bit less. "Well it wasn't very funny."

His expression softened a bit at that. "Sorry. I just can't believe that it's actually something I'm considering using to solve a murder case."

If Lydia had been feeling as if having a man in her room that wasn't trying to shove his tongue down her through was a bit surreal, then that snapped her back to reality. "_What?_"

Stiles looked up, eyes wider than before, realizing what he just said. "Maybe I should tell you everything I know."

"Yes," Lydia crossed her arms. "Maybe you should."

It didn't take him as long to explain everything as he thought it would have. He told Lydia about the unsolved Whitechapel murders, showing her his notebook, and then explaining that Scotland Yard basically considered it a closed case, even though they still hadn't caught the man, but all the evidence just led them to dead ends. He told her how he kept going back to the scenes of the murders until he found the scratch marks on the buildings. Then he explained that he came to the woods looking for some sort if animal tracks that could lead him to whatever creature was responsible for the scratch marks and he just stumbled upon her boulder.

"It's not my boulder," Lydia said.

"Well, you've been there both times I've been there, so in my head it's your boulder."

Lydia held up her hand, silencing him. "So you think that this thing, whatever it is, killed those women?"

He bit his lip and fidgeted a bit from foot to foot before answering. "Well that's where I'm unsure. The wounds on the victims didn't look as if they had been made by an animal."

"How do you know so much about the murder cases?"

He flashed her a grin. "My father is the Detective Inspector. I know how to wheedle information out from him if I need to."

She began pacing her room, thinking. If the wounds weren't from an animal, and the were-beast was in beast rather than human form when he left those marks then, "Are you sure those scratches were made at the time of the murders? I mean you didn't find them until very recently."

He looked up at her doubtfully. "They were at both murder scenes. That's just a coincidence?"

She shook her head. "No, being just a coincidence doesn't make sense. But there were scratch marks on the bolder as well, and there wasn't a murder committed there. What's it doing here?"

"Planning another attack?" Stiles suggested.

Lydia frowned, eyebrows scrunching together. "Idon't think he would linger around longer than he had to. It would be a bit risky, wouldn't it?"

"Well, yes."

"And a man who has left Scotland Yard with nothing but trails eading to dead ends for months, wouldn't throw it away on something so stupid as lingering outside the his next murder scene. Especially if there were marks placing him there."

"Meaning?"

"I don't think the wolf-man is the killer." She stood in front of him, waiting for an answer. She saw his mind spinning, no dount spiraling off into a million theories based off of what she just said. He waited a long moment before turning back to her.

"So," Stiles drew a long breath. "You are now proposing that not only do werewolves exist, but that they are not actually murderous beasts, and that there is something else out there killing people in places where the werewolf just happens to leave it's mark?"

Lydia clapped her hands. "Yes! That is exactly what I'm proposing."


	11. Chapter 11

Unfortunately, after her epiphany that the murderer couldn't possibly be the werewolf, Lydia had nothing further to go on.

Stiles was getting impatient.

"Just give me a moment!" she whisper yelled.

Her hair was out of its perfect bun and was flying all about her face as she turned. She batted it away with the back of her hand, but that did nothing.

Stiles groaned and dragged his hands over his eyes. "You have been pacing this room, saying nothing for an hour. It's getting late. We either need to find a lead right now, or call it a night and reconvene tomorrow."

Lydia stopped her pacing. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "Maybe I'm wrong."

He stood up and tucked one particularly pesky lock of hair behind her left ear. "I don't think you are wrong. I just think maybe we need a break. It's late, get some sleep and we can go from here tomorrow."

Lydia sighed and nodded, not feeling any less defeated. She lifted the curtain and pushed the window open for Stiles to climb through.

Once he had gotten safely onto the branch he turned his back to look at her.

"Look," he said. "I know how you feel right now. But to be quite honest? I've investigated and reported on countless crimes, and it took me much longer to get things to click as quickly in my head as they seem to do in yours." Then he gave her another small smile and started climbing down the tree.

When Lydia woke up the next morning, she felt a small, unfamiliar breeze. Looking over, she realized that she had forgotten to shut the window completely.

Shutting the window, she braced herself for another day of monotonous, mundane torture disguised as lessons, and made her way down for breakfast. When she got to the Great Hall, she stopped in her tracks at seeing a figure standing off to the side of the room, next to a suitcase.

"Allison!" she exclaimed and ran over to her friend, throwing her arms around her.

"Lydia!" Allison said, surprised and a bit breathless as Lydia had knocked the wind out of her with the hug. "Miss me?" she joked.

"Ugh, this place is so dreadfully boring without you." She let go of Allison. "How's your family? Is everything alright?"

Allison nodded. "Everything is fine. Nothing to worry about."

"Good," Lydia replied, looping her arm through Allison's and leading her to the breakfast table.

She wanted to ask Allison what had happened with her family, why she couldn't write about it in her letter. Why she had a book about mythical creatures (which actually may not be as mythical as they once thought) hidden under her bed. To tell her about the rock on the path with the same markings as the one from her drawing, and about the man from the woods who seemed to be sort of friends with Lydia and now wanted her to help him solve crimes. But it wasn't the time, not yet. Maybe later, when they were walking back from Vespers, or when they got back to her room and she could pull out the book (and then apologize for ripping a page out of it) and demand an explanation.

They were walking back from Vespers later that night when Lydia her a twig snapping from behind her.

"Did you hear that?" she asked Allison. Her eyes darted from tree to tree.

"Hear what?" Allison looked around, confused.

Lydia looked back towards the chapel, and saw nothing. Maybe it had just been Stiles and he had left when he realized that Lydia wasn't alone. She cast one more glance around before turning back to Allison. "Nothing. Never mind. Let's just keep going," she said.

"You're a bit jumpy tonight aren't you?" Allison joked.

Lydia opened her mouth to quip back, but then she heard a scream, rattling from the trees to her left.

She knew that voice.

"Stiles!" she called, chasing after the noise.

She heard Allison behind her. "Lydia! Where are you going?" She began chasing after her. "Who is Stiles?"

Lydia didn't answer, only followed the direction she hoped he would be in. If he was in these woods, he was here to see her. Which means that if he got hurt, he was hurt because of her.

"Stiles?" she called out again.

She came to a clearing, in the middle sat Stiles with his right hand plastered to his left, blood seeping out from under his shirt. He looked up and met her eyes with wide, frantic eyes.

"Miss Martin!" he yelled. "Get back! Get to the school!"

She ignored him and ran over, peeling her gloves off as she ran.

She knelt down beside him.

"Miss Martin," he whispered, breathing raggedly. "You have to get back. You were right about the wolf. You have to get back to the school."

She shook her head and her trembling hand reached for his arm, and carefully removed his hand from his injured arm. She took her gloves and wrapped them tight around the wound. He hissed in pain, face scrunched up. After the gloves were tied up, she reached up and stroked the sweat-matted hair out of his forehead.

"Come on," she said. "You have to stand, I have to get you back to the school."

Stiles shook his head. "Not to be self-sacrificing or anything, but I'm going to seriously slow you down. Get your friend and go. I can get back on my own."

"Not likely to happen, Mr. Stillinski," she muttered, dragging her up with him.

That was when Allison got to the clearing. "Lydia what—" Her eyes widened at something behind them.

"Oh god, it's him isn't it? I knew I was going to die," Stiles was muttering into Lydia's ear, but she wasn't paying attention. She was watching Allison.

Allison who was currently reaching into her boot and pulling out a knife and throwing it right at them.


	12. Chapter 12

"Allison what—" But Lydia couldn't finish her sentence because Stiles was dragging her down onto the ground, away from the knife flying towards them. Her cheek hit the cold dirt, and she spat to get it out of her mouth, glancing over at Stiles' arm to make sure it wasn't bleeding any more through the make-shift bandages.

She saw him wince in pain, but paid little attention as her focus was back on Allison who was stepping over them, another knife (where did she get all those knives?) in her hand.

Then Lydia saw what the knife was aimed at. On the ground behind them, with a knife wound across his right upper arm, was a man who looked to be a few years older than Stiles, breathing raggedly, eyes fading from bright blue to brown.

"What is going on?" Lydia muttered, standing up, brushing off her skirt and then reaching down to guide Stiles back up.

"Lydia," Allison barked. "Take him," she pointed at Stiles without looking back at either of them. "And get him to the school. Get his arm treated. Don't say anything else about this."

"But what—" Lydia started to protest.

"Go."

Begrudgingly, Lydia steadied Stiles with her arm and dragged him away from the clearing. When they got back to the path, Lydia looked at Stiles whose breathing had turned ragged and shallow.

"Are you going to be able to make it? I can run ahead and bring Mrs. Moore out to treat your arm if you need to rest?"

Stiles shook his head, hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead as it flopped back and forth. "Don't tell anyone in the school. Just get me to your room and we can clean this, and no one else has to be dragged into this."

Lydia stopped mid-step and stared at him incredulously. "You cannot be serious. How exactly am I supposed to get you to my room?"

He nodded towards the side of the building that they were slowly approaching. "The tree, same as usual."

She barked out a laugh and he looked at her in confusion.

"You can not climb a tree." He looked at her doubtfully and opened his mouth to protest, so she squeezed his arm a little tighter before he could get a word out to prove her point. He winced in pain. "See? You can't do anything with this arm."

"I can climb the tree," he grit out.

"You're going to fall to your death."

"I can climb the tree!"

She let go of his arm at his outburst. "Fine," she pressed her lips together. "Climb the bloody tree." She stomped off toward the school's door, leaving him standing in the shade of the tree, waiting for her to get to her room and open the window.

He must have started climbing as soon as she left him, because he was nearing the top branch, the one that led directly to her window, by the time she pulled back the curtains. She opened the window and relaxed against the cool breeze as he made his final maneuvers onto the branch in front of her.

She thought about helping him over the window sill, but moved aside instead letting him clamber over by himself, since he had been so determined to climb the tree.

His breathing was uneven, and his skin was a ghastly shade of grey, and the gloves wrapped around his wound were stained a deep maroon, and seemed to no longer be doing anything, as Lydia spotted streaks and drips of blood running down his arm from underneath them.

"You've loosened the wrapping by climbing up the tree," she snapped at him.

"Why are you upset with me? I am trying to help you here," he said, lowering himself down onto the edge of her bed.

"Why were you in the woods in the first place? You know what's out there, you shouldn't be there on your own."

He looked up at her, disbelieving. "You think I should have brought you? And put you in danger?"

"I am capable of taking care of myself, thank you. More than, it seems, you are at least." She moved to her wardrobe and pulled out an ugly old dress that she'd always hated and began ripping the hem into strips.

She set the strips of fabric on the bed next to him. "Wait there," she said, grabbing shallow basin from her dresser and quickly leaving the room.

"As if I could go anywhere," he grumbled to himself.

She returned with the basin three quarters of the way full with water. She set it down on her bedside table and then knelt in front of him. She carefully began unwrapping the gloves from his arm, making her touch as light as a ghost when she saw him try to conceal a wince.

"Sorry," she whispered.

She placed the bloodied gloves in the waste bin, and reached for a strip of fabric, which she dunked in the water and then wrung out before carefully sliding it up cleaning the blood along his arm before reaching the cut.

"I'm not very good at this," she said, trying to make her hand stop shaking. "It's probably going to hurt. I don't—I'm not practiced enough to do it without hurting you."

Stiles shut his eyes and nodded, reaching for Lydia's hand and giving it a squeeze, before moving it directly over the wound.

She heard a sharp intake of breath when she pressed down to clean it, and tried to lighten her touch, but knew it wouldn't do much of anything other than prolong the process, so she grit her teeth and tried to ignore the winces and sounds of pain coming from directly in front of her.

She watched the basin water grow red each time she rinsed and wrung out her cloth, and she had to go through several to try and keep the wound clean before she was finally able to stop. She looked down at the red water next to her and wanted to heave because in it she saw the color missing from behind Stiles' cheeks. He was ghostly white.

"I'm going to wrap it now," she whispered. "It still might hurt."

"It's fine," he said. "Just do it."

She carefully wrapped the first make-shift bandage around the wound, before picking up another strip of fabric and wrapping it tighter around the first one, securing it in place and adding pressure to the wound so it hopefully wouldn't bleed out again anytime soon.

"Okay," she said, resting her hand over the bandaged spot. "Done."

His eyes opened and found hers and they were big, and open and full of gratitude, and he reached his hand over to cover hers on his arm.

"Thank you, Miss Martin."

She cracked a small smile. "I think we are probably at the point where you can call me Lydia," she said, nodding at the bowl of bloody basin water. Stiles followed her gaze and gave a low chuckle.

"Lydia," he said softly. "Thank you."


	13. Chapter 13

She didn't send him back out into the woods right away. In fact, he tried to leave as soon as he was cleaned and bandaged but she wouldn't let him.

"That thing, the man, the wolf, it's still out there." She blocked the window.

"So is your friend," Stiles pointed out.

Lydia remembered the flash of the knife pulled from Allison's boot, remembered the blade whizzing past them, missing her head only because Stiles had the foresight to pull her down with him. She remembered the blood seeping from the wolf-man's arm, cut put there by Allison.

"I think she can handle herself," she said shortly. "Now, sit. Catch your breath."

Stiles sat back down on the bed, running his fingers along the scratchy fabric over her mattress.

"You should probably stay out of the woods from now on."

Lydia snorted. "That's rich, coming from you." She shot an angry look his way. "Look, I know you are worried that something is going to happen, and I know you are about to point out that I have never dealt with anything like this before," she said as she saw him open his mouth to protest. "But neither have you. I am fairly certain that werewolves are not common territory for journalists."

"You should meet my editor," he joked.

Lydia tried to stifle her smile, but knew that he saw it anyway. "And anyway" she continued. "Allison very obviously has dealt with something like this before. And she is certainly not going to trust you if I am not there."

Stiles stayed silent on the bed. His eyes were glued down to his feet, and he was rolling his fingers back and forth against each other. Lydia sat across from him on Allison's bed. She sat without speaking, watching him fidget for a few minutes before she finally broke the silence.

"You should stay here until Allison gets back," she said meeting his eyes. "Then you at least will know what happened with the wolf man."

He nodded, looking back down at his feet. Finally he sighed and barked out a laugh.

"This is ridiculous. This is mad!" he laughed lowly to himself.

"What, exactly?"

He looked at her incredulously. "This whole thing! I mean, obviously this thing is dangerous and shouldn't be out there, but who are we going to tell? My dad? Yeah that'll go over well."

Lydia didn't know what to say. She didn't have a lot of experience in situations like these. Actually, no experience in any sort of situation that involved a werewolf, a murder mystery and a man having what appeared to be a mental breakdown on her bed, after she had just tended to his _werewolf inflicted wound_. She had no idea what to say.

"Sorry," he seemed to sober up from his episode. "I know this isn't any better for you."

Lydia didn't want to sit around feeling sorry for herself. In some weird, twisted way she was a part of this now and drowning in self-pity wasn't going to help anyone. Stiles said she was sharp. That she thought quickly, that she could figure things out. So she just wanted to figure it out.

"Do you think that was the killer?" Lydia asked Stiles, pulling him out of his silence.

"I think that it doesn't matter either way. Whether he killed those two women or not, he's still dangerous. And if he's here, there might be more like him. It doesn't matter which one is the killer."

"But you think it's definitely a werewolf?"

Stiles shrugged his shoulders. "At this point, I've kind of given up on my theories." He raked his hands through his hair and Lydia could tell that his mind was spinning at break neck speed, coming up with dozens of theories even if he claimed he wasn't anymore. "It just doesn't fit," he growled.

"That the werewolf would target school girls after he's only targeted prostitutes?"

Stiles looked up, meeting her eyes. "Exactly."

"Okay," she started pacing. "Well, two murders do not exactly create a pattern. Plus, the only thing they had in common were their jobs. They were different ages, their wounds were similar but not exact. We don't know for sure that it was the same person for both of them. And we don't know that it was a werewolf who did it."

"Yeah," he admitted. "But the marks at the scene—,"

"Definitely not human. Or like any other animal I've seen."

"So," he stood and started pacing as well, made tricky by the very small space between the beds. "The werewolf was definitely at the scene, but is not definitely the killer. But, definitely dangerous," he said gesturing to his arm.

"Okay let's say he's not the killer—which we really should hope that he's not because my best friend is out there with him—why would he be at both murder scenes? And why would he skulk about in the woods outside my school?"

Stiles was chewing on his lower lip and he paced back and forth. Lydia eventually sat down on her bed and watched him while she tried to come up with an explanation.

"Okay," Stiles said stopping. "We said he's not the murderer. Hypothetically. If he was there both times, that means that the real killer was something either in league with him, or more dangerous than him. But I think that if he was conspiring with the murderer, he would have just killed me when he had the chance."

Lydia considered his words. "You think maybe he's trying to stop the murders? That he's taking it upon himself to be some kind of protector?"

They heard the door open and Allison walked in. "Finally got there did you?" She said closing the door and locking it.

"Come on," she said climbing out of the window. I've got something to show you."

Lydia raised her eyebrows at Stiles, but then followed suit, going slowly to make sure Stiles could handle climbing the tree injured once again. His breath was ragged and he was a little pale once they got to the bottom, but he didn't seem as if he would be falling over dead any time soon, so they kept going.

They followed Allison back to the clearing, where they saw the wolf-man from earlier tied to a tree, with a gag in his mouth.

Allison turned around to face them.

"He says his name is Derek."


	14. Chapter 14

_"He says his name is Derek."_

Lydia's head felt like it was swirling in on itself. She was on her bed, unable to sleep. Snippets of what she learned a few hours earlier kept playing over and over in her mind.

_Stiles reached for a stick but Allison reached out her arm to stop him. "He's not a threat to you," she told him._

_"Not a threat?" Stiles barked a laugh. "My arm is torn to shreds because of him!"_

Lydia shivered as she remembered the cool blue of the man's—Derek's—eyes. They had been staring right at her as Stiles and Allison bickered alongside her. Piercing, they seemed to have drowned out the noise, until she had torn her eyes away, focusing instead on Allison.

_"What is he doing here? Why is he tied up?"_

_"If there's one," Stiles said, "there's bound to be a pack nearby."_

_Derek growled._

_"There is," Allison said. _

Lydia had felt a cool chill run down her back at that. She remembered thinking of Stiles' arm, of how there was a pack of creatures out there waiting to do that, or worse, to any of them at any time.

_"Then, forgive me, but what the bloody hell is with the niceties? I don't care what his name is, I care where his pack is and why they are attacking people!" Stiles shouted._

_Derek rutted against his binds, the rope—where had Allison gotten rope?—pressing into his skin. Lydia could imagine the scrapes and burns it would leave, and found herself smiling as the image of Stiles' arm flashed in her mind. Derek grimaced. _

_"He says they're not."_

_"Oh, well" Stiles started. "If the big, dangerous, clearly violent werewolf _says_ that he's not attacking people, then he must be telling the truth!"_

_"Stiles," Lydia said drawing raised eyebrows from Allison. "Mr. Stilinski. Let her explain."_

_Stiles let out a shaky breath and clenched his jaw. "Please continue, Miss Argent."_

Lydia squeezed her eyes shut and tried to force sleep to come once more. She was tired of reliving the same scene over and over again. She was tired of being scared and confused and having her questions answered only to reveal more questions.

Instead of sleep, she saw Allison pick up a knife from the forest ground.

_"There is a pack, but not like you think. It's just him and his uncle and one other. The other one, Scott, he called him, is the reason he was out here tonight."_

_"Is Scott the one attacking innocent people?" Stiles spat._

_Derek pushed against the ropes once more._

_"Scott—Mr. McCall that is, is the one demanding that they take shifts patrolling around places that the killer might attack next."_

Lydia sat up in her bed and opened her window, letting the cool breeze dry the sweat from her brow. Her hands still felt shaky, though she knew logically there was no reason too. Not anymore. She was inside, she was safe."

_"You think the killer might attack here?" she turned to the man tied to the tree, but it was Allison who answered._

_"He's been killing women, young women. They're just covering their bases."_

_"He's killing prostitutes, not school girls," Stiles said._

_"We don't know who he'll target next." Allison wiped the blood from her knife onto the grass and secured it back into her boot._

_"We?" Stiles turned to Allison._

_"Do not think that you are the only one investigating this, Mr. Stilinski."_

Lydia moved over to Allison's side of the room, pausing at her dresser. On top of it were newspapers, the ones that had been under her bed. Lydia ran her hand over them reading the headlines. They were all about the murders, or incidents resembling the murders. If Lydia had just moved her hand a little to the left when she had grabbed that book from under Allison's bed, she would have found them. She would have known what Allison was doing all that time.

_"Why did he attack me then?" Stiles said after a few moments' silence. _

_"Covering their bases," Lydia whispered, everything clicking in her head._

_"Excuse me?" He turned his attention to Lydia._

_Lydia looked at the man once more. "They're patrolling here to protect the students, right? Well you hardly look as if you attend Beacon Hills Academy for Fine Young Ladies."_

_She turned and saw Stiles watching her. "He thought I was the murderer."_

_"Like the young lady said," a new voice from the trees called. "We're just covering our bases."_

_A man came out into the clearing, from behind where Derek was tied. He flashed them all a claw-fingered wave before slashing at the ropes that bound Derek to a tree._

_"Beaten by a girl, Derek?"_

_"Beaten by a hunter, uncle. She could beat even you."_

_The man, Derek's uncle flashed her a grin._

_"You're Peter, I imagine?" Allison said, hand hovering over her left leg._

_"I'd prefer you'd call me Mr. Hale, if you don't mind." He looked her up and down. "Shall we see if my nephew is right?"_

_Derek held out a hand in front of his uncle. "We're not here to attack school girls, Peter."_

_Peter glanced over at Stiles' injured arm. "What are we here for then, nephew?"_

_"Fantastic question," Stiles grit out, fists clenching at his sides._

_Peter moved his attention to Lydia. He stepped away from Derek and Allison, letting out a low growl as he passed Stiles and stood in front of Lydia._

_"Well," he said. "What's a pretty school girl like you doing involved in all this" He started circling her, challenging her from every angle._

_Lydia didn't know what to say to that. There wasn't a reason she was involved in any of it, other than the fact that she seemed to be surrounded by people who were._

_"I'm not," she said quietly. "I'm not involved in any of it."_

_"Oh," Peter tsked, stopping right in front of her. He reached out his hand to under her chin. "I think there's more to you than meets the eye." His finger traced along the underside of her chin, claw splitting the skin as it was dragged by. _

Lydia went back to her own bed, feeling the scab that was already forming from the blood under her chin.

She saw Allison sit up.

"So," she whispered. "Derek and Peter didn't tell us what they knew. What now?"

Allison pulled the newspapers from her dresser onto her bed. "Now, we find Scott McCall."


End file.
